


Crowley Gets Scurvy

by skeletonsandroundabouts



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is antivax coded, Crowley is stupid and I hate him, I'm also a huge Oscar Wilde fan so jot that down, I'm really jealous of the UK's healthcare, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Scurvy, Sickfic, although I suppose it doesn't matter, half of the treatment is just eating oranges, i refuse to tag this as ineffable husbands, if you have scurvy go get treatment, it's real easy, neither of them deserve love, you like harry potter and the goblet of fire jokes??? I know I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsandroundabouts/pseuds/skeletonsandroundabouts
Summary: Anthony Crowley has been showing some signs of having scurvy lately, so he goes to his dear friend, Aziraphale for help.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Crowley Gets Scurvy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not tagging this as Good Omens book, because in that nugget of media Crowley actually consumes more than just wine (oh god, that sounds like a euphemism, uh oh).
> 
> Just to clarify, Crowley's not anorexic, he's just stupid.

Crowley had been feeling incredibly tired lately. But that was probably because of all the sick partying he’d been up to. Lots of parties. Late nights. The works.

But it was going to take a whole lot more than a few sleepy mornings to take down an agent of hell!

And then is gums started bleeding.

“I think,” said Crowley with difficulty. “I might have scurvy.”

“Well let’s assess this situation,” mumbled his friend Aziraphale with a hint of cockiness. “I really didn’t think that it was possible for ethereal --former or otherwise-- beings to get such earthly diseases.”

The angel rambled on about rodents and Italian noblemen burning down their castles.

“Shut up, please!” Crowley had collapsed onto one of Aziraphale’s many divans. “My skin’s getting all scaly now.”

Aziraphale looked slightly taken aback.

“Well,” he started, pausing to smooth out his waistcoat. “You are a snake.”

“AAAAH,” Crowley screamed. It was a shrill and pitiful thing.

“Right. Sorry.” Although Crowley didn’t know it, his angelic companion had never actually gotten sick before, not even just to see what all the fuss was about. During the Black Death, Aziraphale had done the smart thing and had fled to Poland. “Well, do you think you should go see a doctor? Take advantage of the whole NHS thing.”  
Crowley glared at his companion even through his sickly, languid stare. “Don’t trust doctors. Too many traumatic memories.” He shuddered. “Don’t really fancy the idea of them getting all up close and personal. Too many questions; not enough answers.”

With Crowley, it was hard to gauge how bad his scurvy actually was since his reptilian features and general apathy towards health just made him look sick anyway.

“What do you think made this illness come about?” asked Aziraphale.

“Beats me.”

“I mean, you’re eating fruit, and --wait. Are you eating fruit?”

There was a very long pause. Aziraphale could see the demon thinking behind his slitted eyes.

“Mmm,” Crowley mumbled. “Yes?”

“Crowley. Wine is not a fruit.” The angel’s infinite patience was beginning to wear a little thin.

“Uhm, uh, er, well, you know, em, it could be.” Crowley had gathered his long limbs into a fetal position.

“You don’t eat, do you.”

“Never really thought I’d need to,” whispered Crowley.

“You could just miracle yourself out of this situation.” Aziraphale placed his hands on his hips.

“No!” said Crowley with an unusual amount of strength. “I’ve brought this situation upon myself. I should suffer through it.”

Aziraphale was thoroughly confused with this line of thinking. “You’re being utterly ridiculous. Childish even. Imagine if humans had that same attitude towards medicine.

Crowley blinked, which was something that he didn’t usually do. It was a slow and clunky blink, much more comparable to a double wink. The demon was out of practice. “Well, I mean, yeah, but like, they’ve never gone twenty years without eating.”

“Twenty years!” Aziraphale gasped. “Good Lord, Crowley, are you using miracles as corporeal glue!?”

“Maybe.” Crowley let out a grotesque groan. “I think one of my canines is falling out.”

“Look,” the angel sighed. “I’d heal you, but I fear I might be getting one of those ‘strongly worded notes’ were I to do that. You’ve got to heal yourself.”

“No!” Crowley cried, throwing his lanky arms up into the air, almost knocking over a Tiffany lamp. I’m too far gone!”

“You’re really not.” Aziraphale adjusted the stained glass lamp shade back into place with a frantic wave of his hand.

“Oh but I am!” He let one of his arms fall down over his head. “I’m dying. I’m done for. Say good-bye to your dear friend! Me!” Crowley had used the last of his strength to leap up, almost tumbling off of the divan.

“You’re not dying. You’ve just got an illness. The severity of which, I’ve been trying to determine.” Aziraphale sat down and summoned up a cup of tea. There was decidedly no cup for Crowley. “I really wish you’d go and see a doctor. I mean, we’re in London. There are more hospitals than curry places.”

“Told you. Don’t like doctors. They don’t like me.”

“Maybe so, but I’m sure they’d be perfectly happy to give you an orange or two.” Aziraphale sipped his tea smugly.

Crowley rolled around in a very serpentine manner, writhing and wriggling in a way that should be very difficult for a scurvy-ridden and vitamin deficient man such as he.

Aziraphale willed a lemon into existence and chucked it at Crowley with every ounce of his strength.

Crowley stopped wiggling. His voice manifested itself in Aziraphale’s head.

“I can’t talk anymore,” the voice grumbled with Crowley’s characteristic grumbliness. “All my teeth have fallen out.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” said Aziraphale emotionlessly. “If only there had been a way to avoid that outcome.”

Crowley’s limp body shook once from atop the green velvet divan.

“I hate you,” the voice said. The body bounced with each syllable.

“You could just grow them back,” suggested Aziraphale.

“No,” the voice somehow gave a crippled cough, despite the notable lack of a throat. “I’ve don’t it before. It’s not fun.”

“I thought you didn’t like ‘fun’.”

A scream came from Crowley’s body.

“I haven’t got left to live,” the voice said at the same time. “Take my body, and turn it into a bone. Then bury it somewhere.”

“What! Why?”

“It’ll be a sick Goblet of Fire reference,” the voice was starting to fade.

“Oh,” a bit of joy had returned to Aziraphale’s demeanor. “I love that book.”

“Nah,” the voice scoffed. It faded a bit more. “Movie’s better. They got a real tosser t’play Bary Crouch Jr. though.”

“What?”

The voice coughed again. “Nothing. Anyway. I’m dying. In just fifteen minutes’ time, I shall be dead.”

“You are horrible, you know that?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to talk to the body or to the inside of his head somehow. “You are downright offensive.”

The voice giggled. “That’s kind of the point.”

What had been Crowley’s body was now completely still. There wasn’t even the soft rise and fall of breathing.

“Am I dead?” asked the voice.

“It appears so.”

The voice gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God-- er, uhm, oh. Nevermind. I was in so much pain.”

“I thought you’d be very sad. An easily avoidable discorperation.” Aziraphale said with a tsk.

“Oh no, I was miserable. I’d actually had scurvy for years.” The voice seemed mildly annoyed for some reason. “I’d been holding myself together through pure will power and denial, much like with my car.”

“Those must have been some very difficult years for you.”

“Yup. The minute the scurvy had become too overpowering, I basically started to deteriorate. That’s why I went from a little bit ill, to dead in just ten minutes.”

“That’s why you couldn’t go to the doctors.” Aziraphale nodded in understanding.

“I was basically a walking corpse. Just had to let the decomposition process catch up.” The disembodied voice did something like a nod.

“That’s disgusting!”

The voice had almost completely faded. “I’ll come back…” it said. “Hold on…”

And the voice was gone.

Aziraphale got up and went over to the body. Sores and scales and cuts and boils that had not previously been there now caked his festering body.

Blood leaked out from his chapped lips like juice from a squashed orange-- a fruit which Crowley had not touched once in the last twenty years.

Aziraphale gasped in fright. Just like Dorian Gray!

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this, I googled Barty Crouch Jr. just for the fun of it, and I swear to God, in every single photo, (except THAT ONE [all the D*vid T*nnant stans know EXACTLY which photo I'm referring to]) he looks like a fucking crackhead.


End file.
